This morning when I left for work - it was almost like all the neighborhood birds paused and looked at me.

That's her! I could hear them all agreeing in unison.

I have decided that the birdie chain of communication has unified in order to wreak havoc on me and my exposed noggin while skipping through the pearly gates of Epcott.

It's a Conspiracy Theory - to shit on me.

Here is the dramatic reinterpretation of my traumatic experience, It's a bit long - and many of you have read it before - but I thought I'd repost, anyway:

In the most beautiful place on earth, in an open-ceiling shopping mall paradise - I was relaxing on a wall, basking in the sunlight and enjoying the fountain behind me full of over-sized tropical fish, when SPLAT!!!

I.

GOT.

POOPED.

ON.

And if that wasn't bad enough - the bird was sick - it was green. I had green bird shit trailing down one whole side of my leg. No napkins. The closest bathroom was four stores down and two stories up in Macy's. So I had to walk all the way past the beautiful people behind the sparkling makeup counters full of expensive products while they stared at me - their faces struggling to contain looks of horror behind all the Botox. So I trooped past them - head held high - noting the fact that my choice of outfit - a pink Hillbilly Haven Old Navy tee and green army capris - was a bad idea (even though the pants hid some of the goo quite well). And with every squishy bird-shit-laden step that I made - I heard suppressed man-giggles snorting behind me by my ever-loving hubby who had somehow managed to avoid the Kamikaze Bird Shitter.

"When can I laugh? Oh, god, when can I laugh???" He would cry painfully every time a little bit of poo would dislodge itself from me and splatter on to the white tile floor. I said nothing - just threw my purse at him upon arriving at the bathroom and pushed my way through the sea of three-foot-tall Asian women - all speaking in their native tongue and trying to decide how many of them should be in the picture of Macy's bathroom as I stuck my foot in the sink and began scrubbing. The tallest of them, wearing four tank tops, satin bomber pants and four-inch spike heels - raised her camera. I shot her an angry look that contained all the fury of someone who - literally - just got shit on by nature. She ran down the hall and locked herself in an open stall - rattling - I'm sure - about how "Crazy big American woman - she try kill me! Kill me! Picture? SURE! Peace sign!!!"

After using every last piece of two-ply in the bathroom I was finally content that I no longer had bird feces on me. Walking out - my lovingly supportive husband - red-faced - handed me my purse without saying a word. We walked slowly back towards the other stores - he steered me towards Tiffany's.

"Do you want to get a little bracelet from here? Would that make it all better?"

" I don't want to talk about it." I said.

"Maybe a little silver one with your initials?"

"Don't wanna talk about it."

We walked past the security guards that lined the front of the store, both glancing at us and then blatantly staring at my leg that was soaking wet from the knee down. I gave them a weak smile while my husband steered me by the shoulders towards the glass case containing the sterling silver monogrammed jewelry. A small lady with short dark hair, magnificently groomed, and not at all soiled like me, popped up from behind the counter.

"This is our new 'Tiffany Collection," she said. "Would you like to try it on?" She held out a clunky chain bracelet that held a charm reading "Tiffany and Co." on it.

"Yes, she would." My husband took it from her and put it on my wrist.

I looked at the bracelet, then at my husband who was nodding approvingly, and then at the lady.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Last night I decided to conquer one of my culinary fears - Puff Pastry. I am not sure where this irrational fear of pastries that puffed came from, but it's there. Maybe it's the slightly delicate nature of the pastry, one can not be sure...

So I sat down after eating my masterpiece of a dinner entree - prepared from scratch - hot dogs and bagged salad - yum - and began the tedious task of peeling four large apples with a very sharp knife. I sat there, tongue in teeth, concentration forming beads of sweat on my brow as I attempted to make an apple-skinned curlie-q.

I failed.

Every time.

But I did get in there and cut each slice of apple paper-thin as my directions entailed.

I piled the appley-goodness into a pan, tossed in some flour, cinnamon, brown sugar, and, for the heck of it, a handful of walnuts.

After awhile - the syrup had thickened and I read the next step.

Add sour cream.

Huh?

Really?

Take my staple burrito topping and slather on this pretty mess of sugar and apples?

No.

Can't.

It's just wrong!

But, like the novice chef/baker that I am - I cringed and then slowly folded in the white gooey mess.

It looked like the bottom of someone's shoe after a particularly icky day at the vet's office with a sick poodle.

And it was in my pan.

But, shunning my natural reaction, which, by the way, was to grab the gooey mess and run screaming through the neighborhood like a pooh-toting carney - I plopped the whole she-bang into the pie-plate (which I sooo didn't even know I had) and then sat down at my sticky kitchen table (result of freak syrup incident in the A.M. - and nooo it wasn't like that - I was alone - hey - you - you are a sicko!:) ).

I knew it was going to be gross.

It was going to be worse than that time that I had made White Chocolate Fondue.

Now THAT was downright icky - it tasted like old, stale marshmallows. And butter substitute.

Twenty-five minutes later it comes out looking beautiful and golden brown.

The little hearts that I had painstakingly cut out in various sizes were sitting pretty on top of a wonderful smelling pie.

It smelled good, looked good, but would it taste good?

I wasn't so sure...

I emptied half a tub of Cool Whip on top for safe passage to my picky pallate.

If I don't like it, I thought to myself, I'll just give it to Dad - he'll eat it!

I tetatively took a bite (mostly whipped cream with a tad of the pie) and grimaced in preparation.

Wednesday, June 8, 2005

Big pitiful sigh from me and one anguished slap in the forehead for ya'all.

Yup.

Harry had to go work out of town again, but not before spending a wonderful weekend with me.

Lemmie explain.

Friday: A dozen pink and red roses walk through the door FOR ME! It was the commencement of "date night" which means that I wear matching undies and he buys me pretty things. It's all good.

Suddenly, out of left field, some old friends come in to town, so romantic dinner is pushed to the side to eat at a local Italian place with pictures from the 70's decorating the walls.

After dinner Harry asks me to tell him that he can't go out with the rest of the group to a "club of ill-repute" because he was supposed to spend the night with me.

I earn enough good girlfriend brownie points for a new car (hopefully) by selflessly declaring that he should go with the guys since one of them lives 10 hours away. I kissed him on the head and placed upon him just a few usual rules, "have fun, don't touch anything and don't bring anything or anyone home."

He got home at three a.m. and made it up to me. :)

Saturday: Slept in until one a.m.

Was very very nice.

Sunday: Air conditioner broke. Shower broke. And toilet remains broken (see one of the first journal entries for explanation of broken toilet and the hard times that involve flushing by sticking your arm in the tank! ew.).

Try to clean house - but instead opt for a drive and a big 'ol scoop of ice cream.

All in all - a very good weekend.

Had to call ex beau to ask if he would, pretty please, come and look at my air conditioning unit. And, no, that's not a pseudonym.

Spent last night painting.

It was very nice and calming. Like Zen and the Housewife - a way to be one with yourself.

Crap, that went weird. Oh well.

The Zen like state quickly vanished when I tried to kill a teeny spider crawling up my kitchen wall!

The nerve of the little bugger to set up house in my, well, house!

So I balled up a wad of tissues and went after him "Die! Die you little shit! Die!" Usually, they oblige - but this one had spidey sense and jumped a la killer cricket, two feet to the left! Undeterred I lunged - tissues first at him - dodged again!

Finally, I got out the big guns.

I stood over him, hulking, with an industrial strength can of RAID.

He looked like the last surviving member of a foam party when I was through with him.

I just realized that my ten year reunion was fast approaching - like an iceburg and the Titanic (no ass-jokes here, please). It made me think of a few things...

Middle school was a picnic compared to what was to come as freshman in High School.We were to be the fresh fruit display on the smorgasbord of upper education.

We were divided, deluded and devoured by cliques, formed shortly after man was created.We were sorted based on our book covers – the things visible to the naked eye making the decisions for us.Little did we know as we stood there in our Kmart shorts and matching tops that these new molds were ours to conform to for our entire high school careers – or worse – the rest of our lives.

The popular crowd selected the pretty kids, a big toothy wide white grin and a head nod towards the chosen ones as the only indications of acceptance.The athletic ones were high-fived and chest-bumped by others sporting jerseys of different jarringly loud sports teams.The geeks, nerds and Bill Gates fan clubbers were shuffled off to the library to lean the latest in HTML format.The rest of us were the un-chosens.We watched as the smart ones were given textbooks bigger than our dining room tables at home and sauntered off clutching their new college application schedules.We stood there – unclassifiable.A fate worse than death, some would say, at least in high school-speak.

We were forced to wander from clique to clique never really fitting in and never really being accepted until, horrors of horrors, the only listing that would befall under our Senior Class Picture/ Accomplishments was – Yearbook Staff.

Holly

About Me

Some things could only happen to me... or Jerry Lewis... A seemingly ordinary event like, say, grocery shopping often ends with my imminent peril. All for your enjoyment, of course.
This past September marked my 30-something birthday and with it, the final notch on the bedpost of my writing career. A tiny thing, really. Didn't have much of a chance of survival with my chubby hands wielding a pen, after all!
And speaking of chubby hands, in 2010 I gave birth to my son, Harry the Fourth (he's definitely his daddy's namesake!) and my life has NOT been the same since. But, ya know, in a good way. :)
So, if all else fails, I might make you laugh, or cry. Or maybe even both. So pull up a comfy couch or an ergonomic chair and read, partake in my oopsies, wonder at my blunders and snarf heartily at my guffaws as I navigate my life and try to survive the new one I created.
With much love,
Me.